


All the Way Through

by wood_originals



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Come Shot, Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, M/M, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wood_originals/pseuds/wood_originals
Summary: Tig loves poking bruises and Juice is starting to feel like he deserves the pain.
Relationships: Juice Ortiz/Tig Trager
Kudos: 19





	All the Way Through

**Author's Note:**

> Me: They did Juice dirty in the show, why is he suffering all the time???  
> Also Me: *does Juice dirty*

Tig loved to poke a sore spot, both metaphorically and literally.

He’d poke his fingers into bruises and bump up against stitches, he’d always manage to grab the place where skin was raw from road rash or tender from being wrenched some way it shouldn’t have been. Tig liked to touch scars if anyone left them in open air. Gemma would often joke he wasn’t eyeing her rack but was instead drooling over the open-heart surgery scar.

So when Juice was going around carrying a 6 inch galaxy of burst blood vessels running the full rainbow from deep black to soft violet on his throat – well, he knew what was coming.

Tig’s hand would land heavy on the back of his neck making him flinch and his thumb would drag across it, gentle on the first pass but getting heavier. It hurt, ached in the way bruises do but worse still it reminded him of where it came from. Every time Tig’s thumb brushed the discolouration Juice would think of a chain around his throat. He’d think of darkness, of his body fighting to live, live, live when he was trying to do the opposite.

It reminded him of Chibs screaming at him. So close to his face, so full of rage that was equal parts fear and disgust.

It reminded him of Jax and Chibs talking over him like he was a problem when all they had these days were problems. Talking like maybe they ought to take his cut, when that was the only thing worth keeping.

It reminded him how quickly things could go so very wrong.

Juice would twist away from the contact, swat away the hand, tell Tig to fuck off and die in various iterations. He tried laughing, he tried sounding angry, he tried inferring that Tig was just looking for an excuse to touch him but of course with Tig the more you struggled the more excited he got. With wild animals you could at least play dead so they’d lose interest, that option wasn’t really available with Tig.

He cornered him in one of the dark corners of the club house, the storage-closet-like place where they kept the liquor that wasn’t already at the bar. Juice was putting away a crate that had been dropped off because he just wanted a little order in the world when Tig reached around and grabbed his throat. His palm pressed to Juice’s adam’s apple, he wasn’t wearing gloves, the warmth of his skin seeped into Juice’s without barrier. He tried to focus on everything that wasn’t a tree in the dark and the way his breath was replaced with regret. It was hard when he grabbed him from the back, yanked him to his chest. In that backwards pull there was the bite of a chain.

Juice remembered too late his feet were on the ground.

“Will you fuck off with that!” Juice snarled but he could hear the thin places his voice was hoarse. Warm skin felt like cold metal, he couldn’t breathe. 

“No,” Tig replied simply, grinning. Juice couldn’t see it, but he could hear it, feel it in the closeness of his mouth to his ear. “But I could try and rub up against it from the inside, see if you bruised yourself all the way through.”

Juice leaned forward against the shelf in front of him, resting his forehead to the wood. It meant Tig’s hand was tighter to his throat, but that wasn’t any sort of problem. He couldn’t breathe anyways. Everything that had transpired, all that had gone wrong and everything he had done to keep this club, this family, his cut – it made his head spin. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Miles. He was tired and all at once the fight that had held him up was gone. Juice twisted in Tig’s hold to face him, letting his knees buckle. Letting the cement floor put a bruise somewhere else.

Maybe this is what he needed, some act of contrition. Penance.

Maybe it was supposed to hurt.

Tig’s hand came to rest on the top of his head, pushing it back just a little, probably trying to catch Juice’s eye but he refused to raise his gaze. He focused instead on Tig’s belt and reached out with numb and tingling fingers to start pulling at it, undoing it.

“Can we just get this over with? I know you’re not going to leave me alone until you get what you want,” Juice spoke, his tone sounded clipped and annoyed. Which was amazing, he didn’t know how he could speak at all through the sharpness in his throat, the hot sticking pain of oncoming tears.

Tig’s fingertips traced one of his tattoos briefly before he settled his palm against the back of his head. “Smart.”

Juice took him from his jeans, already hard, already leaking at the tip. Out of the confines of denim and throbbing in his palm Juice realized what a very formidable thing it was to have to fit into his throat. He felt no jolt of anxiety or twist of nerves like he expected, if anything he was pleased. Easy penance was no penance at all.

He leaned in putting Tig against his tongue and wrapping his lips around the head. There was a tang of salt where the precum touched his tongue. This was not his first time but Juice was glad when the older man took charge pushing him lower, his cock deeper with the palm pressed to the back of his head. His jaw slacked and his cheeks hollowed and it quickly became about taking it, taking it deeper and further, and pushing down that cloying need to gag.

It didn’t always work, sometimes Tig would push back and Juice’s throat would tighten, feeling like the gag started somewhere at the center of his being, below his ribs. It came with disgusting noises, sometimes he choked further, coughing, having to pulling back for a moment. Juice gripped his own thighs or let his fingers twist into the coarse material of Tig’s jeans. His eyes watered, or tears came, sometimes it was hard to tell which, but either way they stung and blurred his vision. His whole body was in protest. Juice couldn’t tell if he really had bruised himself right through or if he’d caused new damage.

Good.

Juice tried to quiet the fight of his throat, tried to relax so that Tig could make it past his gag reflex and take his breath from him properly. Spit slicked down his chin, tears streaked down his cheeks, he pulled frantic little breaths through his nose. He was a fucking mess.

“Easy, you’re not going to get it if you’re crying,” Tig breathed.

Juice squeezed his eyes shut tight, his face burned. While he was frozen briefly with his own inability Tig pushed his head back a little further and crushing him down just a bit. It straightened out the pass of his throat. When he thrust in again, it was as deep as he could go, he drew back and then pushed in until he was hilt deep again. Juice’s nose was crushed to his pelvis, his lungs protested the loss of his air way.

Juice learned new respect for the Cara Cara girls.

Tig fucked his throat like he owed him something, until the dim of the storage closet vignetted into near darkness. Just when he thought he was going to slip away from the moment Tig pulled back. Juice could not celebrate a full breath however because he pressed his knee into the joint of his shoulder and leaned him back against the shelf behind him. Juice shouted but it came out strained, more hoarse than it had been, it felt like he was coming apart at that seam. Tig, with his cock in his hand, painted Juice’s open mouth with his orgasm, hot streaks that tasted of salt so vividly it coated the back of his tongue before it had even reached there. He could feel it drip down his chin.

“I want you to think of this when you swallow,” Tig growled above him. Then he straightened up and left him there, a mess on the floor.

Juice did swallow, the aftertaste reminded him of getting a nose full of chlorinated pool water. He sorted out his limbs beneath him and rubbed absently at the pain in his shoulder. He stretched his jaw this way and that and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. At least he was occupying his own skin now, there was room for Juice inside of his aching body instead of just an endless sea of guilt and dread intent to drown him.

He swallowed again and there was a thick ache that felt as though something was caught in there and an odd thought occurred to him. Maybe Tig had meant to take his mind away from the bruise on his throat and to replace it with the one inside of it, to think of Tig instead of whatever pain had been sucking him down.

Juice laughed a little, the sound brittle like autumn leaves. Sure.

Penance was over, it was time to get up off of the floor.


End file.
